to discover the body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all
the circumstances which led up to the old man's death. Was it
possible that it was Barrymore after all whom we had seen in the cab
in Regent Street? The beard might well have been the same. The cabman
had described a somewhat shorter man, but such an impression might
easily have been erroneous. How could I settle the point forever?
Obviously the first thing to do was to see the Grimpen postmaster,
and find whether the test telegram had really been placed in
Barrymore's own hands. Be the answer what it might, I should at least
have something to report to Sherlock Holmes.
Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that the
time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk of four
miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a small gray
hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to be the inn and
the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the rest. The postmaster,
who was also the village grocer, had a clear recollection of the
telegram.
"Certainly, sir," said he, "I had the telegram delivered to Mr.
Barrymore exactly as directed."
"Who delivered it?"
"My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore at
the Hall last week, did you not?"
"Yes, father, I delivered it."
"Into his own hands?" I asked.
"Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put it
into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore's hands, and
she promised to deliver it at once."
"Did you see Mr. Barrymore?"
"No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft."
"If you didn't see him, how do you know he was in the loft?"
"Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is," said the
postmaster testily. "Didn't he get the telegram? If there is any
mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain."
It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was
clear that in spite of Holmes's ruse we had no proof that Barrymore
had not been in London all the time. Suppose that it were so--suppose
that the same man had been the last who had seen Sir Charles alive,
and the first to dog the new heir when he returned to England. What
then? Was he the agent of others or had he some sinister design of
his own? What interest could he have in persecuting the Baskerville
family? I thought of the strange warning clipped out of the leading
article of the Times. Was that his work or was it possibly the doing
of someone who was bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only
conceivable motive was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry,
that if the family could be scared away a comfortable and permanent
home would be secured for the Barrymores. But surely such an
explanation as that would be quite inadequate to account for the deep
and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible net round
the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no more complex case
had come to him in all the long series of his sensational
investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the gray, lonely
road, that my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations and
able to come down to take this heavy burden of responsibility from my
shoulders.
Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running feet
behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned, expecting
to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a stranger who was
pursuing me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven, prim-faced man,
flaxen-haired and lean-jawed, between thirty and forty years of age,
dressed in a gray suit and wearing a straw hat. A tin box for
botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and he carried a green
butterfly-net in one of his hands.
"You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson," said he, as
he came panting up to where I stood. "Here on the moor we are homely
folk and do not wait for formal introductions. You may possibly have
heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of
Merripit House."
"Your net and box would have told me as much," said I, "for I knew
that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know me?"
"I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me from
the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the same way
I thought that I would overtake you and introduce myself. I trust
that Sir Henry is none the worse for his journey?"
"He is very well, thank you."
"We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir Charles
the new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking much of a
wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of this kind,
but I need not tell you that it means a very great deal to the
country-side. Sir Henry has, I suppose, no superstitious fears in the
matter?"
"I do not think that it is likely."
"Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the
family?"
"I have heard it."
"It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here! Any
number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a creature
upon the moor." He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to read in his
eyes that he took the matter more seriously. "The story took a great
hold upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and I have no doubt that it
led to his tragic end."
"But how?"
"His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog might
have had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy that he
really did see something of the kind upon that last night in the Yew
Alley. I feared that some disaster might occur, for I was very fond
of the old man, and I knew that his heart was weak."
"How did you know that?"
"My friend Mortimer told me."
"You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he died
of fright in consequence?"
"Have you any better explanation?"
"I have not come to any conclusion."
"Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
The words took away my breath for an instant, but a glance at the
placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no
surprise was intended.
"It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr.
Watson," said he. "The records of your detective have reached us
here, and you could not celebrate him without being known yourself.
When Mortimer told me your name he could not deny your identity. If
you are here, then it follows that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is interesting
himself in the matter, and I am naturally curious to know what view
he may take."
"I am afraid that I cannot answer that question."
"May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?"
"He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage his
attention."
"What a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark to
us. But as to your own researches, if there is any possible way in
which I can be of service to you I trust that you will command me. If
I had any indication of the nature of your suspicions or how you
propose to investigate the case, I might perhaps even now give you
some aid or advice."
"I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend, Sir
Henry, and that I need no help of any kind."
"Excellent!" said Stapleton. "You are perfectly right to be wary and
discreet. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an unjustifiable
intrusion, and I promise you that I will not mention the matter
again."
We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from the
road and wound away across the moor. A steep, boulder-sprinkled hill
lay upon the right which had in bygone days been cut into a granite
quarry. The face which was turned towards us formed a dark cliff,
with ferns and brambles growing in its niches. From over a distant
rise there floated a gray plume of smoke.
"A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit House,"
said he. "Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have the pleasure
of introducing you to my sister."
My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry's side. But then I
remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his study table
was littered. It was certain that I could not help with those. And
Holmes had expressly said that I should study the neighbours upon the
moor. I accepted Stapleton's invitation, and we turned together down
the path.
"It is a wonderful place, the moor," said he, looking round over the
undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged granite
foaming up into fantastic surges. "You never tire of the moor. You
cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains. It is so vast,
and so barren, and so mysterious."
"You know it well, then?"
"I have only been here two years. The residents would call me a
newcomer. We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my tastes
led me to explore every part of the country round, and I should think
that there are few men who know it better than I do."
"Is it hard to know?"
"Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the north here
with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe anything
remarkable about that?"
"It would be a rare place for a gallop."
"You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several their
lives before now. You notice those bright green spots scattered
thickly over it?"
"Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest."
Stapleton laughed.
"That is the great Grimpen Mire," said he. "A false step yonder means
death to man or beast. Only yesterday I saw one of the moor ponies
wander into it. He never came out. I saw his head for quite a long
time craning out of the bog-hole, but it sucked him down at last.
Even in dry seasons it is a danger to cross it, but after these
autumn rains it is an awful place. And yet I can find my way to the
very heart of it and return alive. By George, there is another of
those miserable ponies!"
Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges. Then
a long, agonized, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful cry echoed
over the moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my companion's
nerves seemed to be stronger than mine.
"It's gone!" said he. "The mire has him. Two in two days, and many
more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the dry
weather, and never know the difference until the mire has them in its
clutches. It's a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire."
"And you say you can penetrate it?"
"Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can take. I
have found them out."
"But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?"
"Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut off on
all sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled round them in the
course of years. That is where the rare plants and the butterflies
are, if you have the wit to reach them."
"I shall try my luck some day."
He looked at me with a surprised face.
"For God's sake put such an idea out of your mind," said he. "Your
blood would be upon my head. I assure you that there would not be the
least chance of your coming back alive. It is only by remembering
certain complex landmarks that I am able to do it."
"Halloa!" I cried. "What is that?"
A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It filled
the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it came. From
a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then sank back into a
melancholy, throbbing murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with
a curious expression in his face.
"Queer place, the moor!" said he.
"But what is it?"
"The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for its
prey. I've heard it once or twice before, but never quite so loud."
I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge
swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing
stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which croaked
loudly from a tor behind us.
"You are an educated man. You don't believe such nonsense as that?"
said I. "What do you think is the cause of so strange a sound?"
"Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It's the mud settling, or the
water rising, or something."
"No, no, that was a living voice."
"Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?"
"No, I never did."
"It's a very rare bird--practically extinct--in England now, but all
things are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be surprised to
